Another Day
by anonymous tinker
Summary: Picks up just exactly where The Dark Knight lets off. Bruce and Alfred begin to pick up the pieces. Not Slash.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: So, I've never done this before. Generally, I write other stuff- original stuff- but only a very select few have been allowed to read bits and pieces of it. I guess a person's writings can be rather personal, and I suppose that I'm afraid of someone I know telling me to my face that my writing is terrible. It would hurt, and rather a lot- there's a lot of "me" in my writings. And, as I'm sure most of you are well aware, friends, lovers, etc. are generally not honest about what they think of your writing anyway.

However, I realize that to grow as an author, one must subject themselves to criticism. I was at an impasse. How would I improve as an author and manage not getting my precious feelings hurt? After watching The Dark Knight for the umpteenth time the other evening though, and being stricken with an inexplicable urge to start writing where it left off, I came up with the most wondrous solution to my problem. I would give in to the muse. I would write a fan-fic as a sort of writing exercise and submit it on here, in the hopes that someone would read it and give honest reviews. Best part is, none of you know me. A constructive review from a stranger, even a very negative one, is better able to be processed by me as something other than a personal attack. (I know, I know- I'm working on that thicker skin.)

Another thing- I wouldn't be surprised if this thing never gets finished. It's one of my greatest vices- starting stories, then running out of steam. I'm a chemist and a university student, so I might have some semblance of an excuse. It is unfortunate, however, that no one seems to appreciate a good permanent cliffhanger.

One last warning- I have no idea where this is going. Literally. When I write, I'm one of those folks who jumps in at point "A" and just starts making random turns. I usually end up at a dead end. Once in awhile, a stroke of genius makes it seem like I planned something all along. This is never the case. For what it's worth, the original things I write generally DO have more of a direction than this, but once in awhile it's entertaining write completely blindfolded. Especially when all of the real work, like character development and such, has already been done for you.

So, here we go. I hope it's fun- and if it's not, I hope you tell me. I want to learn.

Disclaimer: I see these all the time. I guess I need one? I didn't think up Batman, Alfred, or anyone else who's going to show up in this fanfic. If someone I did create does show up, I'll be certain to point this out.

1.

"…_because sometimes, the truth isn't good enough."_

Batman stole another glance at the body of Harvey Dent, the smooth, unmarred skin of the right half of his face, and the serene expression apparent there- a reminder of just what he meant to the people of Gotham. Their White Knight. And so he would remain.

He focused once again upon the baffled countenance of Commissioner Gordon, a new resolve building within him. Yes- the decision was made, and it was final.

"_Sometimes, people deserve more._"

With those words, Batman turned and, without another thought, he took off down the alley, cape billowing behind him like a spectral shadow. He knew that the moment he was out of sight Gordon would call him in, and he knew that it would nearly kill Gordon to do it- but he also knew that Gordon and he shared the same vision of what Gotham could be, what Gotham needed to rise. Batman had been Gotham's hero when she needed a hero- now he would solemnly take up the mantle of scapegoat.

He could hear the dogs as he ran. Their barking and the calls of their handlers rang through the night air like a liberty bell. Gotham knew her enemy once again, and she had united with a purpose. Someone must answer for the atrocities committed, and by God someone would. And Batman ran, the hunter become the hunted.

He pushed on into the night, beginning to lose track of everything but the rhythm of his feet hitting the pavement and the wail of sirens and police radio that followed in his wake. He needed to get to the bat-pod before the adrenaline that coursed through him burned off. He could already feel it's effects lessening as squeals of pain from his damaged body broke through here and there, catching his breath and causing him to stumble, breaking the rhythm of the pavement.

The weakness followed. It came with a sudden breathlessness and vertigo that Batman was no stranger to. His time was running out more quickly than the adrenaline- and the dogs drew nigh. The dark streets began to pitch and roll before his eyes, his vision blurry with sweat and pain, his mind cloudy from sheer exhaustion. Dodging between rows of shipping crates he felt his knees give out once- twice- both times, he staggered to a crate quickly enough to catch himself before he fell. Lucky thing too, for he knew well that if he fell, he would not be able to right himself in time to evade capture.

Then, as if in a dream, the bat-pod emerged in his pitching, reeling field of view. Throwing his battered body into autopilot, he forgot about wounds and dogs and exhaustion, leapt onto the vehicle, thrust it into drive and tore away at break-neck speed, dogs and police left in his dust.

The bunker. He needed to get to the bunker. From there he would radio Alfred- if he wasn't already there, waiting- for he knew he was in need of every kind of ministration that the old butler could offer. A sick stickiness had soaked through his entire torso. The pain was bearable but it was building. The Batman was once again testing his limits, and he had a sobering feeling that perhaps he was rather closer to those limits than he'd ever wanted to come.

It wasn't long before the entrance to the bunker was in sight. A quick sequence of buttons was engaged from the handles of the vehicle, allowing the bat-pod a quick, almost silent entrance to the underground sanctuary.

Once inside, the bat-pod came to a jerking halt. Batman lurched off of the seat as it tipped towards the floor and staggered towards the computer, not immediately noticing the familiar form that rose placidly from the comfortable seat in front of the screens to move towards him.

Batman pulled the cowl from his face and dropped the gravelly tone from his voice as he spoke.

"Alfred- you're here…"

"That I am Master Wayne, that I am." With the steady calm that Bruce had come to expect in even the direst of circumstances, Alfred slid a steadying arm under the younger man's shoulders and began to gently but urgently guide him towards the recently vacated chair. "And what kind of trouble have you found for yourself tonight, Master Wayne?"

Bruce only shook his head, his mind suddenly too fuzzy to formulate a coherent sentence. They reached the chair and he was eased into it, panting. A grimace crossed his features, and one thing began to break through the fog of his consciousness at an alarming rate: pain. He felt Alfred's practiced hands begin to undo the straps and fastenings that held him in his suit, and together they peeled the damaged plates and shields from Bruce's body.

A mess. Bruce Wayne was, quite literally, a bloody mess, but Alfred's inventory of his injuries went no farther than the stab wound and the gunshot wound. A clean pad of bandages was produced from God only knew where, and Bruce had them stuffed into his clammy grasp and was told in no uncertain terms to hold them firmly against the bullet hole. Another pad was pressed against the knife wound, eliciting a pained groan. More bandages were wrapped carefully but tightly about his torso to hold the pads in place. A shirt was proffered, and Bruce took it dumbly, allowing himself to be helped into it. Then came a long coat- Bruce protested at first, but Alfred insisted on it. It would serve as a buffer layer should the wounds begin to bleed through their dressings. Bruce thought he heard Alfred say something about the prevention of inappropriate, public bleeding all over the apartment complex's lobby and elevator, but then again, Bruce was having trouble hearing. The roaring in his head, his sides, every inch of him was reaching a fever pitch.

He was helped to his feet then, and the sudden movement resulted in an almost feral growl of pain. Alfred held him steady though, and began to guide him towards the Rolls Royce. No more could be done here- all but the most basal medical supplies were kept at the penthouse, along with a proper bed and nourishment.

"Alfred- if you get stopped, just tell 'em I'm drunk." As slurred and muffled as his words sounded even to his own ears, Bruce didn't think he'd have trouble fooling anyone.

"Don't you worry about me now, sir. Concern yourself with putting one foot in front of the other. We need to get you to the penthouse."

Bruce thought he heard a twinge of concerned urgency that betrayed the calm front that Alfred was so careful to maintain. He fought the urge to grin, no matter how inappropriate the expression for the current circumstance. Ordinarily, a panicked Alfred meant a panicked Bruce- but tonight, a single thought crossed Bruce's mind.

_Do I really look that bad? _

Bruce very nearly voiced this, but as he opened his mouth to do so, his right foot caught on a crack in the concrete floor of the bunker, a misstep that would have sent him to his knees had Alfred not moved quickly enough. The only thing that escaped his lips was a grunt.

"It's a good- good thing you've got reflexes…" Bruce's voice hitched as the bullet in his side caught on something particularly painful.

They reached the car.

"Master Wayne, in you go now." Alfred's voice was even again, calm and steady.

Alfred got the fading Bruce Wayne properly strapped into the back seat of the Rolls and efficiently got himself situated into the driver's seat. Bruce closed his eyes and put his head back. He tightened his hand around the handle on the inside of the door, knuckles white in anticipation of what he was sure was going to be some of the most reckless chauffeuring he'd ever experienced at the hands of Alfred.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: No long dissertation this time- just a simple statement. For some reason, this was hard to write. Bah. I'll be interested to hear comments… Or possibly I won't be. Either way. Any and all input is appreciated. Thanks in advance!

2.

He'd been waiting patiently at the ready for the call for assistance that he was sure would come when he heard the bat-pod make it's stealthy entrance to the bunker. Alfred was a man of action as much as his young master was, and sitting helplessly in wait for Bruce to emerge in the wee hours of each morning was nerve-wracking. It was even worse whenever he arrived at the penthouse in the morning to find an untouched bed, for then fear crept in to mix with the worry- fear that perhaps the young Bruce hadn't made it back. This evening, Alfred hadn't even bothered to leave. He knew he'd be needed- it was just a matter of when.

Ironically, it was when he was needed that he felt the most at ease. When his hands were busy, be it with readying a quick protein shake for Bruce before he needed to be up and off to work or stitching up a cut, he felt his nerves relax and the knot in his stomach loosen. When Bruce needed him, he was at the helm- and gratefully took control of the situation. There was no anticipation, no need to fret. The outcome was in his hands.

Tonight though… tonight nothing was in his hands.

Not even Bruce had control tonight, Alfred feared. The Batman- indeed, all of Gotham- had been up against someone who had been grossly underestimated. The wisdom he'd tried so hard to impart on Bruce about the sort of mind he was dealing with had not fallen on deaf ears, and neither had the words about what it meant to be the Batman. Bruce would, he suspected, have taken it all to heart and more. Now that being the caped crusader was attached more than ever to the idea of sacrifice, Alfred truly feared for him. Additionally, with Rachel's death so fresh, emotions were running high. Anger-even anger of the righteous, justified sort- imparted in and of itself just enough of a degree of self-deprecation and recklessness to make one all the more susceptible to injury. The Batman was more vulnerable than he'd ever been.

Thus, when he turned from his station at the computer just in time to watch a stumbling, shaking Bruce whip off the mask, he was not surprised to see that the face beneath was drawn, pale, and glistening with a sheen of sweat.

As soon as he'd sat Bruce down to begin the customary poking and prodding that ensued every time the Batman returned with a look on his face like the one he wore tonight, he knew that the usual supplies kept in the bunker were not going to cut it. The explosive hole through the supposedly bulletproof plate covering Bruce's abdomen was as clear an indication as any. When his fingers found the second perforation in the "indestructible" armor, Alfred's heart had nearly jumped into his throat. He would have his work cut out for him tonight.

Presently, Alfred was attempting to speed inconspicuously through the dark streets of Gotham, all the while taking periodic glances via the rearview at the man in his back seat. Discomfort was evident on his face and what little color there had been was draining, but there was little that Alfred could do at the moment to remedy that, save to try and take the corners a little less sharply. He heaved a small sigh, his face set in a grim, unreadable line. This sort of thing- the "piecing Bruce back together" sort of thing- fell into the category of things he liked least about his position with Master Wayne. It was, unfortunately, one of the things that he had become quite accustomed to of late. While it brought relief to him to know that he was able to heal, it made him sick to think that a time could come when something happened that he wouldn't be able to fix.

As they rounded the corner of the last street before the building that housed the Wayne penthouse, Alfred began contemplating how he would manage to get Bruce safely from the car to the suite without drawing unwanted attention. There were already rumors circulating about the true identity of Batman. If Bruce Wayne was spotted with the injuries he had after the events of an evening such as this one, Alfred feared that the secret would be out. While he knew precious little about the details of what had transpired over the course of the last few hours, he had a distinct feeling that now would be a most inopportune time for Bruce to go public with nighttime habits.

He hesitated as they pulled up to the curb, thinking that perhaps they should enter from a back way. As he began to pull away again in favor of driving up to the rear entrance, Bruce sat forward and quietly laid a hand on Alfred's shoulder.

"No."

"Master Wayne? " He turned to face the back seat.

"Alfred, I think I should go in the front way. The more people that see Bruce Wayne around the better. I can get in on my own. I'll meet you up in the penthouse."

"You're sure, sir?"

"Yeah. I'll be all right. Like I said before, if anyone asks, I'm drunk."

Alfred met Bruce's eyes. They were tired and pained but alert.

"I'll be up in a bit then, Master Bruce. Try not to leave blood in the elevator."

Bruce smiled a little. "I'll try." He carefully reached for the handle to let himself out. Alfred noted the grimace that crossed his features as he slid out of the vehicle and straightened and he waited to pull away from the curb until he could see that Bruce made it inside.

He walked straight, if a little stiffly. The long trench coat that Alfred had pushed on him back in the bunker covered Bruce nicely to his mid-shins. The lower half of the bat costume was partially visible but not very noticeable in the dark. Alfred hoped that no one observant would care to take a look.

When he saw the front door close behind Bruce, Alfred wasted no time in parking the Rolls and taking the elevator up to the top floor. From there he walked briskly to the penthouse entrance and let himself in, closing and locking the door behind him. A single light had been turned on. Bruce Wayne was sitting in the chair closest to the door, struggling out of the now bloodstained shirt.

"Easy, Master Bruce- let me help with that." Alfred's fingers, still nimble despite the years, deftly undid the buttons and slid the shirt from Bruce's shoulders. He turned on another couple lights and carefully surveyed the damage a second time. It seemed as though the gunshot wound had ceased it's bleeding. The stab was another story though, and the pad of bandages had soaked through.

"Did you get a look at the size of the knife, Master Wayne?" Alfred's careful fingers undid the wrappings from Bruce's torso.

"Yeah. Small switchblade. " His voice caught a bit as Alfred began to examine the wound more closely. "I don't think it's that bad. Bleeding like a stuck pig, though."

"It certainly is." Alfred rose, wiping his bloody fingers on a towel. "Excuse me for a moment while I fetch the supplies. Keep pressure on that until I get back."

He then left Bruce to his own devices and headed for a large closet just off of the entrance. It had probably been intended for use as a pantry but had since been re-purposed as the medical supply closet. Here were kept enough bandages, sutures and antiseptic to supply Gotham General for a month. Alfred began to stock a large sliver tray with all of the above. He then proceeded to the shelves where the medical instruments were kept and removed a scalpel and forceps. A bottle of local anesthetic and a handful of syringes completed the collection on the tray. After a last glance around the closet, Alfred made his way back to Bruce.

The stab wound was an easy fix; an injection or two of the anesthetic, a good flush with the antiseptic and three sutures to close it. The wound had turned out to be rather shallow as knife wounds went- a simple slice through muscle. No internal damage.

Now for the second problem.

"Bullet's still in there. I can feel it." Bruce's hands gripped the arms of the chair tightly. His jaw was set, teeth clenched against the pain as Alfred began to minister to it. To his chagrin, Alfred noticed that this wound was deeper than the stab, and it contained debris from the plates and fabric that should have prevented it in the first place.

"Then it's going to have to be removed, Master Wayne." Alfred's words were spoken so matter-of-factly that one might think that he removed bullets from Bruce on a daily basis. Even Bruce, who was used to Alfred's often frank nature, looked slightly taken aback by his tone. "It isn't as though this is the Wild West, sir. I've got plenty of anesthetic, a good sharp scalpel, a steady hand, and experience to boot." At that, Alfred turned to his medical tray and readied the first shot of anesthetic. "On that note Master Bruce, it might be better if you'd lie down. Make it easier on the both of us."

Bruce didn't question Alfred's request. He simply propelled himself out of the chair he was settled into, one arm wrapped protectively around his middle, and shuffled to the bed where he eased himself down with a grimace. Alfred had followed closely, ready to lend a steadying hand or a shoulder if necessary. When it seemed as though Bruce was settled and as comfortable as possible given the conditions, Alfred again readied the syringe. Then he paused.

"I expect that this will take the edge off- however, depending on where the bullet has lodged itself, that may be all it does."

"Thought you said this wasn't the Wild West." Bruce had brought one arm up to cover his face, as though he were simply trying to block out the light and return to a pleasant sleep.

"Well sir, I have yet to use your best Scotch for an antiseptic," was the Butler's snappy reply.

A weak chuckle escaped Bruce, followed by a wince. At this, Alfred was immediately all business again.

"Enough chatting now, sir. And hold still."

He quickly injected the first dose of the anesthetic, then a second, then a third. When he was satisfied that Bruce was sufficiently numb, at least superficially, he began to gently search with the forceps. Upon closer inspection, the wound contained much less debris than Alfred had previously thought- but the slug was nowhere to be seen. When he'd done as much as he could do before making an incision, he stopped to check the status of his patient.

Bruce's eyes were closed, as if he were deep in concentration. Alfred noted the flush of color high on his cheek bones- a fever was beginning, no doubt borne of exhaustion and pain. It would pass with a good night's sleep, he knew, but the worst of the necessary treatment was yet to begin. To inflict more pain on the already pain riddled body of a man who was as much a son to him as anyone made his gut clench unpleasantly, and the phrase "this is going to hurt me more than it's going to hurt you" had never rung truer to him than at this very moment. Duty called though, and, as always, Alfred was ready to follow through on whatever was asked.

"I'm going to make an incision now. Be prepared."

Bruce swallowed and nodded, never opening his eyes.

"Go for it."

Alfred, his hand steady as any surgeon's, made the quick cut. A sharp hiss of breath and a jerk from Bruce let him know that his hunch about the anesthetic's limits had been correct, but he soldiered on, determined that this surgical procedure would be quick. It was a great relief to the old butler when almost immediately, the dull shine of a bullet was apparent though the fresh flow of blood. One hand calmly dabbed at the blood from the incision with a pad of gauze while the other deftly handled the forceps. It took a moment or two of fishing about with the instrument before he was able to grip the slippery bit of metal well enough to remove it, but remove it he did.

"There, Master Wayne. No worse than pulling a tooth." The bullet hit the tray with a thin _clank_ of finality. "Just a quick wash and a stitch or two and we'll be done for the evening."

Bruce's eyes opened a crack. He raised his head a bit to watch as Alfred stitched him up, then let his head fall back on the pillow again. "So much for bulletproof." His voice was hoarse, a ghost of the gravelly voice of the Batman.

Alfred finished taping gauze over both sets of stitches, then stepped back to survey the rest of Bruce's body. Bruises had begun to pop up everywhere, but time would heal those as surely as it would heal the more serious injuries his young master had sustained. With a small sigh, he returned all of the used instruments and other refuse from the evening to the tray. Both he and Bruce would live to fight another day.

Wordlessly, he straightened and went to dispose of the tray into the kitchen where it would be cleared and the surgical instruments sterilized for their next use. After a last quick stop in the medical supply closet, he returned to Bruce's side. Noticing that they had yet to remove the bottom of the bat-suit, Alfred moved to do just that, helped Bruce to slide into a more comfortable pair of pajama pants, and then under the covers of his bed. It was then that Alfred produced a pair of white, unmarked pills and a glass of water.

"What's this?"

Alfred said nothing, only gesturing for Bruce to take them, which he did, albeit suspiciously.

"Just take them. And don't ask me where they're from either. We don't need the drunken, playboy, billionaire of Prince of Gotham to gain a reputation for being a prescription drug addict as well."

With that, Alfred pulled up his chair in preparation for his customary vigil. He watched as Bruce began to relax under the effects of the drug, and ventured a small smile.

It looked as though everyone might get some rest tonight, thank God. Alfred knew that Bruce had a long road ahead of him yet, and in more ways than one.


	3. Chapter 3

3.

Fuzzy.

He felt downright fuzzy. He'd been dreaming, one of those pleasant dreams that takes a turn for the worst when you least expect it. Bruce couldn't quite remember details, but he did remember that he wasn't sorry that the dream was over.

It took him a moment or two to decide whether or not to open his eyes. The fog was clearing from his mind though, and many rather unpleasant things were beginning to emerge. There would be no going back to sleep now. He allowed them to open just a crack and waited for them to focus. The insides of his eyelids felt like sandpaper, and he cautiously brought a hand up to rub at them.

Upon finally peeling them open them all the way, he was surprised that there was no onslaught of light from the windows and thought for a moment that it was perhaps evening. Turning his head to view one row of windows, he noted that it was indeed day, but that Gotham was shrouded in the gloom of a thunderstorm.

It was fitting, he thought.

Alfred was at his usual post, reading a newspaper. When he looked up to see that Bruce had awoken, he carefully folded up his paper and, breaking into a smile, rose.

"Good to see you awake, Master Wayne. How are you feeling?"

Bruce took mental inventory. Most of him felt like one mass bruise- dull aches and stiffness with a few sharp twangs here and there. He wasn't even sure if the question was worth answering, but he decided to humor Alfred and said the first thing that came to mind.

"Sore." He was more hoarse than he expected. Craning his head the other way, he managed to focus on the alarm clock. 2:37 P.M. He scrubbed at his face a bit, trying to orient his thoughts.

"I missed my meeting."

"It certainly isn't the first time. I'm going to go out on a limb and say you'll be missing the one tomorrow as well."

Bruce mulled that over for a moment.

"What's my excuse?"

"You were in a car wreck, as you may recall, and are suffering from a rather serious case of whiplash."

Bruce allowed himself a smile. It was a decidedly good alibi.

"I'm afraid you've also missed lunch, but I've got some wonderful chicken dumpling soup still warm on the stove if you're feeling up to it."

He wasn't hungry, exactly. There was, however, a strange empty feeling that spread through his stomach and into his limbs- all of him felt drained, hollow, and weak. He was tired though, and no matter how empty his stomach might have felt, the rest of him felt like falling right back into a hopefully dreamless sleep. Looking to Alfred, he started to decline the offer of food. Before he could get the words out though, he took note of the harried look that still shadowed the butler's face and the deepened lines that ringed his eyes. It was then that it occurred to Bruce that perhaps, for Alfred, he should accept the food. The older man took great pleasure in feeding Bruce and would, perhaps, find it heartening seeing his young charge eating.

Bruce fought the urge to heave a sigh- the stitches would have pulled uncomfortably. Instead, he nodded.

"Sounds good to me, Alfred."

"One bowl of chicken dumpling soup coming right up then, sir. Just sit tight." The butler turned on his heel, seemingly eager to prepare the best recuperative meal he could manage.

As he waited for Alfred to return, he began to test his body, trying to gauge just how long it would take to get himself back into fighting form. With some difficulty, he pulled himself upright, until he was seated with his back against the pillow. To his dismay, he found that the stitched wounds were severely aggravated by even slight movement, and they weren't the only parts of him that had begun protesting excruciatingly. Frustration spread through him faster than the pain. Weeks. It would be weeks before he was back to normal.

Weeks that, as far as he was concerned, he didn't have.

Or maybe he had all the time in the world.

Before he could sink too far into self-pity, Alfred returned, beaming, and with a tray laden with a good sized bowl of the dumpling soup. He placed the tray carefully over Bruce's lap and stepped back, looking satisfied.

"There you are, Master Wayne."

The smell of the soup wafted up to Bruce's nose, making his mouth water. Perhaps he was hungrier than he'd thought. Eating was slow going, for he discovered that his hands were shaking and much of the soup ended up dribbled on the tray long before it got to his mouth. The portion of the hearty fare that he did manage to get down the hatch, however, had a surprisingly restorative effect. With Alfred's cooking, perhaps he'd be back in action sooner than he thought. He wiped his mouth on the napkin provided and looked to Alfred again, who had relaxed back into his bedside chair and seemed calmly absorbed in the newspaper, spectacles perched primly on his nose.

"What's the news got to say about last night?"

Alfred looked up and noticed that his ward had finished eating. He rose and wordlessly exchanged his newspaper for the tray.

"Haven't read much of the front page yet. Thought I'd wait to hear it first hand." With that, Alfred turned on his heel to dispose of the tray.

Bruce cracked a wry smile and carefully smoothed the front page. The headline didn't surprise him, but nevertheless it stung.

**The Batman Shows His True Colors!**

At a time when Gotham can ill afford to lose a hero, she has; and not one, but two. Harvey Dent has been declared dead- and at the hands of none other than the Batman. No fewer than six lives lost in the chaos of last night are attributed to the dark workings of the Batman. After an interview with Commissioner James Gordon this morning confirmed the worst, it is clear that the caped crusader, someone that much of the public had turned to for hope in the past months, has changed sides in the battle…

There was more, but Bruce couldn't bring himself to read it. His reaction surprised him; he'd thought that he would be able to take this in stride. He carefully folded the newspaper in his lap, an unreadable and distant expression on his face. For as sore as the rest of him was, his mind was surprisingly and almost alarmingly numb. Suddenly though, Dent's words sprang up from somewhere in the dark recesses of memory from the night before.

_Why was it only me who lost everything?_

From the same dark corner of his mind, Bruce's answer rang- but it rang now with a new bitterness.

_It wasn't. It was me who lost everything. We both lost Rachel- but I've just sacrificed everything that I had left to make sure the Joker didn't get the last laugh. _

_ Was it worth it?_

He sat like that for a while, blank-faced and unmoving, his thoughts wearing a hole in the carpet of his mind where they ran in aimless circles. Eventually, he sensed rather than saw Alfred's presence and managed to fight his way out of the mental trench he'd dug for himself. He blinked and found that Alfred was standing at the bedside, glass of water and another two pills in hand.

"Alfred, Harvey Dent killed five men last night."

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, like a wild animal being released from a trap.

Carefully, Alfred set the glass of water on the nightstand and placed the two pills next to it. After pulling the vigil chair closer to the bed in order to facilitate conversation, he then proceeded to sit.

"I daresay that makes a sorry mess of things."

"He's dead." Bruce sounded hollow.

"I know."

Bruce stared at Alfred for a moment, confused but not all that surprised that he knew.

"Thought you said you didn't read the front page?"

Alfred looked smug. "I never said I didn't turn on the television."

Bruce offered a fleeting half-smile. Then his brows drew together in something like a tired frown.

"What else did the television have to say?"

Alfred sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, those spectacles still situated atop his nose. Presently, he gazed over them at his charge, carefully weighing his words.

"I think you know, Master Wayne."

A heavy silence fell upon them. After a minute or two, Alfred stood and turned to leave. Before he marched off though, he hesitated a moment and turned back to Bruce.

"You did the right thing."

Bruce began to shake his head in frustration. "My father…"

"Your father," Alfred interrupted, "would be proud." He paused a minute, then ventured on. "And so would Rachel."

Another silence fell. Bruce's gut clenched at her name, and grief rose from wherever it had been relegated to while he'd attended to the saving of Gotham. It would have overwhelmed him had the exhaustion not begun to take hold first. Exhaustion was a good diversion. Carefully, he eased himself back down, until his head once again rested on the pillow. His eyes burned and he let them slide shut.

Alfred's face again took on a look of consternation.

"I'll wake you for supper, Master Bruce."

It was the last thing Bruce heard before he drifted off into restful slumber.

* * *

It was dark outside by the time Alfred went to rouse Bruce. As the bed came into view though, he could see that it was empty, the covers thrown carelessly back. He heaved a sigh. An empty bed rarely meant something positive when it concerned Bruce. When a glance around the room didn't reveal any pajama-clad billionaires, he began to worry.

"Master Wayne?" Alfred's voice was sharp with alarm.

"I'm here."

The words, carried to him from the next room, were quiet and sad. Alfred followed their sound and as he turned the corner, the first thing that caught his eye was the flicker of the television screen. He watched for a moment, and felt his hear sink. A slideshow of Rachel was being displayed on the evening news, voiced-over with the details of the tragic explosion that took her life.

Bruce sat sprawled in the armchair in front of the TV. One arm rested carefully over his middle; the other dangled listlessly from the edge of the upholstered arm of the chair. The pained expression on his face was enough to bring tears to the butler's eyes.

_"…causes of the explosion that killed Miss Dawes and severely injured the late District Attorney Harvey Dent are still under investigation. Funeral arrangements for both Dent and Miss Dawes are pending…"_

When he noticed Alfred's presence, he looked up.

"When do you think they'll have the funerals?"

Alfred studied him for a moment.

"Later this week or early next, I should think."

A pause.

"Alfred, I want to go. To Rachel's."

Alfred's brows drew together, his lips pressed in a thin line.

"I'm not certain that that would be wise, Master Wayne. Considering-"

Bruce cut him off.

"She was my…" Bruce hesitated a moment. "…my oldest friend. I should be there. I need to be there."

Alfred stood silent for a moment. Then, he offered a nod.

"Very well."

He carefully surveyed his ward, who looked significantly worse for the wear. The cold light from the television illuminated a face that was somehow dark and pale at the same time. Bruce needed more than bodily nourishment, but that was the best that Alfred could offer at the moment.

"Supper's ready when you are, sir."

As he turned to go, he brushed away a tear. Whether it was for Bruce or for Rachel, Alfred couldn't tell.

* * *

A/N: Hope you enjoyed part three. Took me long enough too- had a bit of trouble with it, trying to find the direction. That's how it usually works for me though. The good news is, I have a direction now- decently clear too. There's a villain and everything! It's always good to know where something is going. The bad news is, my classes start Monday. I am anticipating a semester with less than sufficient time for sleeping and eating, much less writing.

Basically, only expect an update every two or three weeks? That's as long as I don't run out of steam or lose focus or anything- I'll post something to let you know if this dies completely. I don't think it will, but if that happens, hopefully someone else would take up the challenge of finishing it…

I did want to address one thing that has come up in the reviews, namely that of the lack of medical supplies in the bat bunker. The primary reason I went with that was due to a scene from the movie in which Bruce and Alfred are basically destroying every bit of evidence associated with Batman in the bunker in preparation for Bruce's "coming out" for lack of a better term. As I pictured them clearing the place out, I couldn't imagine them leaving all of their med stuff there. I realize that Alfred is shown manning the computers there after that so they couldn't have gotten rid of everything (maybe the computers sink in the floor like the batsuit…) , but somehow I didn't see them suddenly moving everything back ASAP. If I were Alfred, medical supplies would probably be one of the first things I'd think to move back. Unfortunately, I didn't write it that way.

It is a little dramatic. Hopefully not too bad. Just the sort of thing I was hoping to have brought to my attention though.

Thanks for reading as always- again, please leave reviews... any and all comments and critiques are greatly appreciated!


	4. Chapter 4

The sun was out. Clouds floated aimlessly, carelessly across the sky. A breeze tenderly fondled the leaves on the oak and ash trees that circled the property, the soft rush of movement breaking the silence that had, thus far, been broken only by sporadic birdsong and the noise from the distant freeway. It was a day like so many others that Bruce could remember… countless summer days, days with breezes just like this one carrying on them the chatter of birds and breath of the leaves on the trees- and the laughter of a little boy and a little girl.

There was no laughter today, just the leaves and the birds and the cars and the silence. It was surprising just how silent groups of people could be, reflected Bruce, as he surveyed the assembly around him in Gotham's cemetery. The grief that covered them all like a blanket seemed to muffle any noise they might make. The service was over now. There was nothing left for anyone to do but to leave, and to let the undertakers finish their work. The mourners began to filter away one by one, breaking off in whispering groups of two and three, hugging, grasping hands. Bruce didn't follow the throng. Instead, breaking away from Alfred, he began to move towards where the undertakers were readying the mechanical lift that would lower the casket to its final resting place. The workers saw him coming and respectfully moved aside, despite a quiet grumble or two- they didn't have all day.

Had he been able to speak, he'd have assured them that he wouldn't be long. He began to gingerly rummage in his pockets for something. For a moment he thought he'd lost it, but then his fingers found it and brought it out into the light. The familiar arrowhead rested in the center of his palm. He gazed at it, feeling the memories wash over him. No tears came though- Bruce Wayne, playboy, didn't cry. He simply moved to stand at the foot of the casket. Wordlessly, he placed the ancient stone on the wood of the casket lid. He would have liked to have been able to place it inside, with her, but it had been a closed casket funeral. He'd been at the scene, seen the body- her body- and wasn't surprised. The casket lid would do. He wished that he could find words, even though he knew that words didn't matter. She couldn't hear him anyway.

He thought that the funeral would have brought him closure, would have somehow eased the pain of everything. It hadn't. As he stared at the casket, trying to say good-bye, he knew he was bidding farewell to his future and the life that might have been theirs, together- the what-if's of a life he'd never, ever have.

He was lost in this reverie when he felt rather than heard a presence at his elbow. He turned, expecting Alfred. Instead, his eyes met the dark green eyes of a woman. Her eyes, like his own, were dry, her face unreadable.

"You're Bruce Wayne." The pitch of her voice was low for a woman's. He thought he detected an accent, but he couldn't tell what. He gave a nod, studying her face. She was attractive, but unremarkably so, her dark hair pulled back into a chic, business-like ponytail at the base of her neck. Her clothing was professional, but with a scholarly bent- a young professor perhaps? She looked little older than Rachel. Before he could formulate a question, she spoke again.

"I'm surprised to see you here- Rachel spoke of you often, and you didn't seem like the "public mourning" kind."

That comment stung, but Bruce knew that it was true enough of his public face. He shrugged.

"We were kids together. She was a good friend." He reached out to lay a hand tenderly over the arrowhead and turned back to the woman before him. Bruce forced a cold, shallow smile, willing his gaze and his thoughts past the casket and the grave before him. His hand slipped casually back into his pocket. "I'm sorry- I can't seem to place you…"

The woman's stiff smile reflected Bruce's own. "No need to apologize- we've never met." She offered a hand, well manicured and smooth. "I'm Dr. Isla Poissy, assistant professor of biology at the local college. Rachel and I were old roommates from her days in law school." She began to step away from the graveside. Bruce reluctantly followed her- he had nothing left to say to Rachel, save a million apologies that would simply have to rest unsaid in the pile of regrets that was fast becoming the story of Bruce's life.

"Biology professor? How does someone become a biology professor in law school?"

"She doesn't." Isla let out a small, pleasant laugh. "I changed directions several times before finding my way. But they say that half of the fun of getting somewhere is the journey, so I suppose it was for the best." Her face settled into a pleasant non-expression. "Rachel and I had made coffee plans for this weekend. She was excited about starting her wedding plans… even amidst the chaos. I was looking forward to sharing my new research with her." The pleasantness of her expression began to fade some. Bruce, attuned to such things, recognized this for what it was- the barest slippage of a mask. A mask, he guessed, not unlike the one he wore.

They walked in silence for a minute or two, weaving between graves and trees and pockets of stray mourners to the parking lot, where Bruce could make out Alfred standing patiently beside the Rolls.

Nearing the lot, Bruce stopped and turned to his new acquaintance. "Just because Rachel's gone doesn't mean you have to cancel those coffee plans. She wouldn't have wanted that."

Isla stopped, contemplating. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt to share stories. Might as well make a new friend- we've both lost a good one." She ventured a smile. Bruce smiled too, one closer to genuine than most he offered under the guise of Bruce Wayne.

"My number is on the college's website. I've got to be going- I teach a class on Thursday afternoons. But I'll hear from you?" They had begun walking again, and reached a pale green station wagon Volvo, which Isla unlocked and opened.

"You'll hear from me."

Isla climbed behind wheel and started the engine. Closing the door, she rolled down the window.

"It was good to meet you, Bruce Wayne." With that, she pulled away, leaving Bruce in a mostly empty parking lot.

Deep in thought, he made his way towards Alfred and the waiting Rolls.

"Master Wayne?"

Bruce looked up. Alfred was not-so-covertly giving him the once over.

"You're looking peaked." Alfred opened the rear passenger door, and Bruce carefully climbed inside, not bothering to hide the wince as he bent to sit. Today was the longest he'd been up and about since he'd been hurt. He was healing well and quickly, as per usual, but the exertion of the day- physical and emotional- had left him feeling drained, and the wounds ached and burned. He buckled the seat belt as Alfred, with one more critical glance, firmly closed the door.

He reappeared in the drivers seat, buckled his own belt, and turned the ignition. As he pulled out of the lot, he caught Bruce's eyes in the rearview.

"Who's your new friend?"

The question was innocent enough, reminiscent of those Bruce remembered being asked after Alfred picked him up from the school yard in fifth and sixth grade.

"Isla Poissy. A friend of Rachel's, I guess. Bruce gazed somewhat listlessly at the passing buildings, his hand idly pressing at the bandages he could feel through his shirt.

"You guess?"

Bruce couldn't tell if Alfred was making small talk or prying. He decided he didn't care.

"Rachel never mentioned her," he continued, "at least not that I can remember. Said she was an old roommate." Bruce shrugged. "I guess we never talked much about her college days." Inwardly, he wondered just how many more things he'd never thought to ask Rachel. His eyes found Alfred's again.

"Perhaps this Ms. Poissy will be a link to that past. Sharing stories is a good way to grieve."

Bruce frowned, wincing a bit as his fingers pressed on a particularly tender spot.

"It's not like I've never grieved before Alfred. I know how this works."

Alfred gently shook his head. "You know all too well, Master Bruce. But grieving- it's not like learning martial arts. It doesn't get easier with repetition."

Bruce only stared out the window, his mind empty but for the encroaching tiredness and aches that encompassed him. In truth, he welcomed it, especially the pain. The pain was the last bit of the Batman- and when it was gone, so, it seemed, was he.

A/N: Been sitting on this one for awhile… a LONG while- just got some time and inspiration to complete a chapter! No promises on when the next one's going to appear… but hopefully soon!


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